


For Yourself

by herbeautifullie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Cross-Generation Relationship, F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:05:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbeautifullie/pseuds/herbeautifullie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The box was indiscreet and attracted just as much, if not more, attention than she was sure he'd wanted...</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank Evy for braving this pairing and beta reading for me! This was written as an entry for Interhouse Fest 2011 on Livejournal in which the prompter asked for a teacher/student relationship. This was a first (and very difficult!) for me, but I had a good time exploring them and trying out a new (and very uncommon!) pairing.
> 
> If you've made it this far, thanks for giving it a shot. I've been told it's not half-bad. ;)

**For Yourself**  
\- - -

Hermione prided herself on being above revenge – choosing to ignore Astoria Malfoy when they had lunch in the same restaurant and Pansy Parkinson when she paraded down Diagon Alley exclaiming that the shops in Paris had so much more to offer. She filed letters of appeal promptly after the war, made sure that all complaints of unfair treatment were properly investigated and that it was instilled in those who continued life after the final battle that children could not be judged for their parents' actions. She wrote reports requesting that those who had not been found guilty of any crime be treated the very same as those who hadn't been tried at all.

Her dedication to ensuring fairness was unchallenged – her record for diplomacy pristine – and she had never once felt the desire to take revenge on anyone who'd wronged her.

However, Scorpius Malfoy had proven to be the exception to every rule, every time.

* * *

The box was indiscreet and attracted just as much, if not more, attention than she was sure he'd wanted. Headmistress Vector raised her eyebrows while Madam Desmarais loudly announced her displeasure at seeing such a gift at the breakfast table.

“Professor Granger, you work in a place of _education_ ,” she said. “Was there no consideration for what the older students would think of this vagrancy? So soon after the dissolution of your marriage!”

Hermione owed Neville for saving her job – she was certain that if he hadn't interrupted Desmarais, she would have hexed her and been without one before the clock struck eight. Yes, she'd wanted to say, she was _quite_ aware of the looks she received from the students and the thoughts that must be flying through each of their heads. Teenagers hadn't changed much since she'd been one and though she'd never been quite as obsessed with the sexual affairs of others as most of her peers, she could easily imagine what Sirrah Nott was whispering to Aithne Zabini when she caught their intrusive gazes. Never one to attract much attention from boys – least of all those who were young enough to be her children! – she felt what little breakfast she'd eaten churn when she stood, bright blue box tied with silver ribbon in hand, to exit the Great Hall. The bit of courage she had left kept her strides confident and measured despite her desire to just _run_.

Noting the time, she stopped momentarily at her chambers to tear the folded note on the top of the box free. The closest table's legs quivered from the force she exerted when she slammed the box down, perfect silver bow still tight and royal blue box unblemished despite her furious treatment. He'd expected her force and had charmed against it. It was an intelligent gesture that she did not appreciate it in the slightest. She scanned the note quickly, her frown deepening with each line until she reached the end.

With an indignant scoff, she threw the parchment to the floor and moved to leave her room. The rush of air from the slamming door floated the note towards the bookshelf in the corner where it would lay unfolded until she returned later that evening to put it in its proper place – the fire.

* * *

 _I wouldn't open this in the Great Hall if I were you. Vector is getting old and I'm sure Desmarais' prudence would leave her too shocked to our Headmistress, should she have a heart attack or worse. How was your week off? I read the article in the Prophet; though I can't say I'm disappointed in the news, I am disappointed you didn't tell me sooner. I thought we were friends, Professor?_

 _I bought these as a welcome back gift. I do hope you'll inform me which colour you prefer most. Better yet, you're more than welcome to show me. I, personally, was quite fond of the blue lace pieces for obvious reasons but I do love Gryffindor red as well. The black pieces were a last-minute purchase for nights when you're feeling particularly naughty. I have a feeling (a hope, to be honest) that you have those quite often so I was sure to pick up two._

 _I hope the box won't embarrass you too much. I never realised how popular Madam Notte's Lingerie boxes were until I'd finished my shopping in Diagon Alley. I requested a weekend away from Hogwarts to purchase those, did you know? I hope no one puts two and two together, though I can't expect the rest of them to be as intelligent as you and I. My father is quite proud; he thinks I've finally found a nice pureblood to settle down with after this year. If only he knew..._

 _Madam Notte personally suggested these. Italian women are quite intriguing – nearly as intriguing as you, though not quite as tempting when flustered._

 _Be sure to send my sincerest thanks to Mr. Weasley._

 _-S._

* * *

“Professor Weasley?”

It was hard introducing herself as Professor Granger after nearly seven years of being Professor Weasley. The divorce had been expected but not necessarily welcome on her part. It would be easier to handle now that she had returned to Hogwarts after the week away to finalise the paperwork. She didn't have to wake up to half of their flat missing – walls bare of Chudley Canon's posters and the closet empty without his Auror robes.

“It's _Granger_ ,” Scorpius Malfoy corrected for her. He would know all about _Granger_. He'd seen fit to call her that from the first day and had never rid himself of the habit.

 _“Professor Granger?”_

 _“It's Professor Weasley, Mr. Malfoy. I am married.”_

 _“Yes, Professor Granger, I realise that. However, my question was in reference to the assignment, not your marital status.”_

Sirrah Nott waved her hand at her blond classmate, uninterested in his correction, and muttered, “Whatever, Malfoy. Professor _Granger_ , then.”

Hermione turned from the board, perturbed by the interruption as she set the heavy text she was holding on the desk and rested her hands on her hips. “Is this question relevant to my lecture, Miss Nott? I should hope so, considering this is the third time you've interrupted me.”

“Snappy today, isn't she?” whispered Aithne Zabini, pushing her dark hair off her shoulder before she began sucking on her sugar quill. She winked at Lorcan Scamander as she slowly pulled it from her mouth, letting her tongue slide deviously up the side.

“Actually,” Sirrah continued, ignoring her friend's inappropriate actions, “I was curious about the gift you received yesterday at breakfast. I was under the impression you were _divorced_.”

Scorpius' smirk was entirely too devious – a dead giveaway to anyone with half a brain, Hermione was sure. His cool grey eyes caught hers as he nodded in agreement. “Yes, Professor, we're all adults now. We'd like to know more. You told us first year that we shouldn't be scared to ask questions. You said honesty was the best policy, didn't you?”

“Within reason,” Hermione argued. “As you are all adults, you should learn to behave as such and refrain from behaving like nosy _children_. Should any of you fail to receive your Transfiguration N.E.W.T., I will be comforted by the fact that it was because of your inability to focus and not from lacking a proper professor.”

“Professor Granger,” Albus called from his seat, his green eyes warm and understanding, “I, for one, want to know nothing about why you received a gift from such a... _notable_ establishment.”

“Really, Al?” Scorpius asked. His smirk was confident enough to make Hermione sick to her stomach. Draco had practically spit him out, she was certain. She'd never heard of wizard pregnancy, but she would be sure to research into the possibility because Astoria's demeanor was nowhere to be found in the boy. “I'm curious–”

“You shouldn't be,” Al argued, shooting his friend a sharp look. His eyes darkened for a moment and the thought that he _knew_ Scorpius had sent it left Hermione momentarily weak. This was a sick, twisted game from a child who should know better. Scorpius played with her mind, left her worried, ill and cautious, but there was nothing more than that. His suggestions were nothing more than _suggestions_. She'd never seen the boy alone outside of detention and even then she'd avoided even those after their strange meeting at Christmas.

What made Scorpius dangerous was his perfect mix of Slytherin brutality and Ravenclaw intelligence. He did nothing without it being part of a plan and she knew that this – all of this – was part of something sinister.

Al's friendship with Scorpius hit entirely too close to home, though. She faced Scorpius' pale, aristocratic features at Weasley family dinners while he whispered with Al and helped James perfect the finer details of his newest pranks during the summers. She was forced to sit on the sofa across from him on Boxing Day, listening to him inform her niece and nephews what he'd received for Christmas and how _'dreadfully boring'_ Morocco had been. It wouldn't be far-fetched for Scorpius to have hinted at his twisted plans and let Albus fill in the blanks.

If one thing could be said of her favourite nephew, his imagination was greater than any other child she'd ever met and she was certain he could have imagined the very worst of her, should Scorpius give him a reason to.

“All I was saying,” Sirrah interrupted, returning Scorpius' glare ten-fold, “was that I didn't realise that people her age still _had_ sex, much less got dressed up for it.”

There were snorts of laughter, giggles and eye-rolls before students started discussing stories of witnessing their parents in compromising situations. Albus buried his face in his hands after placing a well-aimed punch at Scorpius' shoulder and muttered, “Look what you've started, you arse.”

“Enough,” Hermione said, drawing their attention back to her. She sat herself on the corner of her desk and scanned the crowd. She passed over Scorpius and instead skipped straight to Albus, who smiled at her sweetly.

“The box and its contents,” she started, effectively snatching Lorcan's attention away from Aithne's tongue and sugar quill, “has absolutely nothing to do with my class and we will not be discussing it any longer.”

There were quiet groans of displeasure. Clearly, they had expected more than being told off for their curiosity. Lorcan's eyes reverted back to Aithne's quill-sucking, Albus' unamused face turned to the window and Abel McLaggen resumed sketching in the folds of his book.

She knew that avoiding the topic was out of the question then. Hermione thought that perhaps giving them a few answers – just enough to quell their curiosity, but not nearly enough to give herself away – would ease them back into the state of mind she needed them in.

“However,” she started, “what I _did_ to that box _does_ pertain to this class. Now, if you'd like to discuss _that_ , I'm willing to participate in a short question and answer.”

Sirrah Nott jumped right in, drowning out the minor celebration as she yelled, “What _did_ you do with the box?”

Hermione scoffed a little, as though asking was a complete waste of a question. “I transfigured it into an organizer to hold all of your ghastly essays until I find time to grade them. It has greatly minimized my clutter.”

Lorcan grinned at Lysander before they turned to look at her.

“Is it a lacy organizer?” Lorcan asked.

“A silky organizer, perhaps?” Lysander added.

“Very lacy,” Hermione said offhandedly, hoping she'd given them enough answers to move on, “and silky. A complete waste of two very fine materials.”

Scorpius frowned and for a moment Hermione thought a child so handsome should never look that displeased. His knuckles turned white and his fingers clenched when Abel asked, “Well, who sent them to you?”

“Someone who clearly doesn't understand how to spend galleons and what the word _'no'_ means,” Hermione responded.

“Can this be over?” Albus begged from his seat as he shifted uncomfortably. He'd told her that he'd only taken Transfiguration so that he could spend one more year with her despite not caring for the subject as much as his siblings had. Hermione was certain he had never – _ever_ – expected to be seated in her class while his peers asked sex-related questions.

“No.”

Hermione had avoided looking at Scorpius directly until he spoke. Curious eyes turned from their professor to their classmate, clearly unsettled by his sudden declaration. Silence enveloped Hermione's classroom for the first time since she'd taken the position. Never – not once – had it been so quiet with a room full of boisterous children before her.

“No,” he repeated, eyes rising to meet hers and filled with fury like nothing she'd seen before. He seemed unaware of the attention – of everyone's attention – and remained completely dedicated to focusing on her. “I want to know why you didn't give it a chance.”

“I hardly think they understand what they were insinuating by sending such a gift,” Hermione answered honestly.

“Seems like you passed up a perfectly expensive pair of knickers and the time of your life to me.”

“Stop it,” Albus muttered, shoving his shoulder against Scorpius' and shaking his head at his friend's argumentative tone. “This is stupid. She's my _aunt_ –”

“Not anymore,” Aithne called from her seat, clearly delighted at catching Al's mistake.

“Sod off, Zabini,” Al snapped, throwing his balled-up notes at her head and smiling when they hit their target. “She'll always be my–”

“It's really none of your concern, Mister Malfoy,” Hermione said, agitated with where he'd taken the conversation. She should have known better than to have offered it at all, but she had made a pact to be as honest as possible when she'd taken this job and she'd thought that giving in a little would be enough to dissolve their strange fascination. “The gift has been dealt with appropriately and I've given you all more than enough time to ask questions. Now, let's return to our review of the last week. I hope Teddy – Professor Lupin, my apologies – went over everything he and I–”

“Are you sure you don't want to give him a chance, Professor Granger? You've seemed very... _tense_ since your divorce.”

“Enough, Mister Malfoy,” Hermione replied, not lifting her eyes from her book.

“I'm just curious, Professor,” Scorpius continued brazenly. “If you've no husband and you're refusing to take up your mysterious gift-giver, how _do_ you occupy yourself?”

“That is _disgusting_. How can you even stomach _asking_ that?” Al said, nearly in tears from revulsion.

“Mister Malfoy,” Hermione started slowly, hoping that if she kept it simple he would realise from her tone – and her tone alone – that the conversation he was so determined to create would not blossom in her classroom or anywhere else. “It is nearly the end of your time here and it is my goal not to take any further points this term. You are in your final year and your house, as I remember it, has placed second for the House Cup in the last three years. You would _do well_ and be _wise_ to remember your housemates and consider them and their feelings before you speak in my class again. Perhaps your voluntary silence will earn them enough points to take the Cup.”

“I accept your offer of detention, then,” he replied, “but I still expect an answer to my question. I was sorted Ravenclaw for a reason.” He paused here, pulling at his blue and silver tie and raising a pale brow as though he wasn't quite sure she understood what he was referring to, though she knew all about his sorting. After all, she'd been there. She'd watched as he'd glared upward, lips moving furiously and his blond hair shaking with the vigorous movements of his head. She'd stepped forward at one point and heard him whisper a heated, “No, you don't _understand_!” but stepped back before she heard anything more. Finally, the brim of the hat opened to yell, “RAVENCLAW!” across the hall and she'd been shocked at her disappointment that he was not the Slytherin she assumed he would be.

He'd shattered all of her preconceived notions over the years. His sorting had been unexpected but his kindness to others had been shocking above all else. He'd not once gloated more than any other teenage boy she knew. His robes were fashionable and of high quality though he'd never insulted other students' hand-me-down robes and Hermione had even seen him share his extra pair of gloves with a Hufflepuff last winter. Scorpius made Ravenclaw's Quidditch team at the start of fourth year and was an excellent Chaser rather than fighting tooth and nail to be their Seeker. He had even made friends with Albus during his first year when they'd both been left without partners in her class. She'd expected they would hate each other, that Albus would manage a solid punch to Scorpius' pompous face and then she'd split them up and have a reason to switch partners around. However, they'd smiled through her entire lecture, made jokes and poked fun at each other. That summer, Scorpius became a nearly permanent fixture in the Potter house and she'd been forced to spend nearly a whole year in his presence.

She couldn't deny the pieces of Draco that shone through Scorpius' personality. They walked the very same – proud and aloof as though they were the finest people to grace the halls. His pointed features, eyes and hair were very much like the Draco she remembered at seventeen, though Scorpius had faced a life without war and Voldemort and thus had no frown lines marring the skin around his lips or a cursed mark on his arm. When he called Albus 'Potter', her skin crawled and her eyes always moved quickly to search them out. She worried on the nights he fought with Albus over Quidditch or summer essays and waited for the day that Draco's insistence on blood purity and old grudges would show up in Scorpius' conversations between classes.

All differences aside, she couldn't look into Scorpius' face and see past everything that made him Draco's son. Hermione couldn't forget the same pointed chin and grey eyes sneering at her in the halls, watching her writhe on the floor of a drawing room while Bellatrix carved 'mudblood' into her arm and scowling at her years later when they passed in the Ministry. Draco and Scorpius – in Hermione's head – were one and the same, both terrible reminders of the war they'd won and the loved ones they'd lost.

“I'm holding you to your Gryffindor integrity,” Scorpius continued, “when you told us there would be no secrets in this classroom.”

Albus seemed frozen from shock though the rest of the class was focused solely on Hermion  
e. She was momentarily self-conscious of her loosely knotted hair, the few streaks of grey that had began to decorate her crown and the ill-fitting robes she'd chosen that morning. Pressure from facing Voldemort had never felt anything like the queasy feeling Scorpius Malfoy's gaze gave her.

“20 points from Ravenclaw,” she announced, the shaking in her voice noticeable, “for your inappropriate assumption. Anything more will result in your immediate dismissal from my class.”

“Yeah,” Al whispered furiously. “That means shut the _fuck_ up.”

And for the rest of the class, he did. But Hermione knew just as well as Scorpius that a single look could relay a message just as clearly as words – and he was a professional at telling her exactly what he thought of her with just his eyes.

* * *

The madness had started at Christmas.

“Dad,” Albus called from the top of the stairs around midnight. “Scorpius is moving his trunk into my room so Aunt Hermione can have the guest bed.”

“No, don't worry over it,” Hermione called. “I'll kip on the sofa.”

Scorpius was dishevelled in his blue pyjama bottoms, blond hair standing in all directions and grey eyes sleepy as he rounded the corner. The tenderness in the scene reminded Hermione of Astoria's outwardly kind face and softer features. It wasn't often she saw Scorpius' mother in his appearance but she found she rather appreciated how Astoria's features softened the sharpness of Draco's on the boy's face.

“I don't mind, Professor Granger,” Scorpius offered coolly after Al elbowed him. Hermione pretended to ignore Albus' jab, choosing to act as though Scorpius had offered out of the kindness of his heart (whose existence she still questioned) and not the ache in his ribs. “No, really. It's fine.”

She'd ended up the exact opposite, turning from one side to the other before realising comfort was impossible on a sofa meant to sit three and not sleep one. Somehow, she'd managed, and there were slivers of early sunlight on the floor when she woke with an aching neck and cramped legs. The hand in her hair was comforting, at the very least. For a moment, she was incredibly proud of Ron for finally figuring out that her scalp was her secret weakness.

No, _not_ Ron.

“Enough,” she hissed, wide awake with the knowledge of exactly who was threading their fingers through her sofa-ridden curls. Sitting up, she moved to tuck her legs under herself as far away from him as possible. She noticed that her knickers had crept up in her sleep and the straps of her bra were hanging off of her shoulders but made no move to right either discomfort, hoping not to direct his gaze to either area of her body. “Shouldn't you be sleeping like the other teenagers in this house?”

Scorpius' smirk was unamused as he shrugged. “Malfoys and Potters are two very different breeds of wizard,” he responded.

“Clearly,” Hermione quipped. She pushed his hand away when he reached forward to brush a stray curl away from her face. His wrist was warm against her fingers when they had connected and she nearly jumped when he leaned forward to bring their faces closer.

“You wanted my attention; you have it,” he whispered. “You don't get to change your mind now–”

“I never–” Hermione started to argue, her voice still low but her face drawn tight with displeasure.

“You did,” Scorpius said, his scowl enveloping every perfect, pale inch of his face. “You tried for years to punish me for what my father did. Leaving me with Al my first year because you thought I'd hate him for being a Gryffindor or a Potter – perhaps you thought I'd hate him for both. You gave me detention on Saturdays after Quidditch, on Thursday nights when you knew we had practice and wrote note after _damn_ note to get us off the pitch on the weeks I'd managed to be perfect enough for you not to find reason to detain me. You never acknowledged me, never offered me the help you gave others.”

It was true. All of it, entirely true. She'd had her mind set in the beginning about him. Astoria’s curved chin and the almond shape of her eyes on Scorpius' face weren't enough to keep her from seeing Draco in nearly everything he did. She knew the moment she caught sight of his pale blond head that he would be a Slytherin, that he would be wretched to her other students but still receive great marks. He would snarl the word _'mudblood'_ and kick others when they were down; all of this she knew, and she had been furious when he sat in her class the first day, bright and proud in his pressed Ravenclaw tie and blue-lined robes.

She thought of Colin's smile having always been too wide, too delighted. She remembered Teddy's head, covered in the calmest shade of blue she'd ever seen, resting against her shoulder while he asked, “Why did they have to die? Why can't they be alive like James' mum and dad? Like Victoire's?”

For the first time, she had been without an answer and she'd felt so _empty_ for weeks after. Books on the emotional state of children and handling death hadn't helped her. She'd poured over pages upon pages of notes from Mediwizards and Muggle psychiatrists before she'd thrown them all in the rubbish bin, tired and feeling as though she'd failed Teddy when he needed her knowledge most.

And what had it all been for? Blood purity? Scorpius was the Malfoy's idea of perfection – two pureblood lines wrapped in a beautiful package of fine hair, baby-soft skin and undeniable intelligence. Draco hadn't been forced to suffer the way others had – he'd been given a second chance at life and handed Scorpius everything a child could ever desire. They'd both been unchanged by the war, blissfully ignorant to the suffering of others and unwilling to attempt to see what lived beyond the gates of Malfoy Manor.

So many deaths, and all for Draco Malfoy to run off and produce exactly what he'd originally planned from the very beginning – to make another pureblood heir to carry on a name tainted by the blood of Muggleborns, blood traitors and half-bloods alike. A name haunted by the souls of peoples' sons, daughters and parents. Mothers left to cry over the caskets of their firstborns while children mourned for the parents they never knew, all for Draco Malfoy and his pureblood friends to scorn their memories further when they paraded through Diagon Alley in their expensive cloaks and with their beautiful, imperious children at their side.

“You know you did,” Scorpius whispered. She flinched as his fingers moved forward again but there was realisation in her eyes, silent proof that he'd figured her out and that her secret was no longer safe. The woman who covered The Daily Prophet with articles about the equality of reformed Death Eaters and Dark Lord supporters was weak to her own ideals – weak against a child no older than eleven who had been blissfully ignorant to his family's past.

Her detachment had hurt during his first year; her seemingly harmless attacks on his social life and character had ostracized him in class and left him wondering why he was different than the rest of his classmates. He'd mentioned her name in letters to his father and had been presented with the entire story after lying when he said, “No, father. She doesn't treat me differently than the other students.”

“You know you stared at me during meals – dissected me for hours on end and to no end. I got a P – a _P_ , Professor! – on my first exam because I couldn't focus with you looking at me all the time. Did you expect I'd sprout snakes from my fingers? What did you want me to be, Professor? _Him_?”

“You acted as though you were entirely innocent!”

“I _was_!”

Hermione's fingers itched to pull at his perfect hair and force him to see reason. He'd provided all the fuel for her fire and lit the match himself. It had never been a one-sided battle.

Had she intended to disrupt his social life? Perhaps. And had she purposely planned his detentions around Quidditch? Yes, often. Her notes had been far more frequent when they were requested to hold off Ravenclaw's practices... But her treatment of him had been no different than Professor Snape's treatment of Harry and–

She was a cruel, sad woman. A replica of Severus Snape.

“And I'm one in a group of many! I know what Sirrah Nott's grandfather did, who Aithne Zabini's father is and that Argento Goyle's mother tried to give up Mister Potter in the Great Hall that night. I know that they were all in just as deep as my father. I _know_ this which means that you must; you knew _them_.” Scorpius continued, his volume rising with every word. “What I don't understand is how you think you can try so hard to get my attention and then just choose to dismiss it when it doesn't work the way _you_ want anymore.”

He gave her a single, flashing moment to contemplate his words before his hands were back in her hair, nails scraping her scalp as they twisted around her curls. He pulled harshly, fingers catching between the knots and her neck snapping from the force. Scorpius leaned forward, his hand tugging her head back to lie against the arm of the sofa. When he kissed her, lips pressed firmly against her own and teeth pulling her bottom lip as he moved away, she remembered that the quiver in her thighs and her breathlessness was an unacceptable response.

Feeling anything for Scorpius Malfoy was _awful_ and _wrong_ but her body refused to deny its attraction – its willingness to feel every bit of his body over hers. When he moved forward, trapping her legs beneath his and cutting off her struggles before they began, she felt relief flood her veins. She could stay where she was guilt-free. His body was far too large for that of a child and any sort of protest she made would be go unanswered. Why bother fighting the inevitable?

“Don't make too much noise, Professor Granger,” he whispered against her neck when he settled comfortably, his weight holding her still. “Can you imagine what Mister Potter would think, coming down the stairs to find you in such a compromising position? Still married to brother-in-law – divorce in the process or not – and with his son's closest friend, no less.”

It was terrible – the kind of comment she would expect from any child of Malfoy's – to mention that she was his professor, married, and his elder in one damning sentence. She had known, no matter what he'd said earlier, that he was not innocent. The devious smirk curling against the arch of her neck reminded her of the Malfoy blood that ran through his veins.

“I hope you understand what you're doing,” Hermione started, keeping her voice low as she attempted to use the dangerous tone Ron and Harry had perfected so long ago, “because if you think you can pin me here forever, you're sorely mistaken. And if you think you can outwit me, you're mistaken in that regard as well.”

“I don't need to be smarter or stronger, Professor.” His tone was casual – off-handed, as though he were comfortable with her thinking she would eventually have the upper hand. His hips rolled slightly, the ridges of his erection evident through his thin pyjama bottoms. He seemed to have expected her gasp and smiled when she swallowed nervously before turning her face away in disgust. She wasn't certain if she was disgusted with herself for the sudden warmth that the action had created within her or with him for making her feel that way.

When she dared to look up at him, the familiar smirk was already playing at his lips. “I just have to know your weakness.

“Don't be angry. Let's make this easy and fair, yeah?” he continued in a low, sickly sweet whisper as his calculating eyes bore down on her. His fingers ghosted over her bare shoulder, sending jolts of electricity through her arm at the touch. “You played your game of revenge well, Professor. I would have never thought it possible for such a _noble_ Gryffindor. But now I'm all grown up and can play along too, so let's not quit before I've had a chance to take my turn.”

“What do you want?” she asked as her hands shifted from under his stomach. She felt every curve and ridge of his abs in the motion – young and athletic despite her attempts to hinder his Quidditch training at every turn. The last time she'd felt a body like that against her own was when she'd been seventeen herself.

His smile was comforting when he moved back, freeing her from his weight as he rose to stand above her. His eyes were almost welcoming – understanding – when she met his gaze. He was truly a Slytherin in Ravenclaw robes. Every blue and silver tie in the world would not convince her that shifting from such a dangerous disposition to such an open, friendly one was possible in a true Ravenclaw.

She could see her wand on the floor, could stretch to grab it and Obliviate him before he'd even think to expect it, but she nearly cried out when his bare toes nudged it to roll under the sofa. He shook his head, seemingly disappointed at her lack of subtlety as he examined her stray curls and her wide eyes. She knew he could see the warring emotions within her – submission battling determination.

“I want to play the game too, Professor Granger. Only this time, I think we should play fair.”

* * *

“His behaviour is worse than any other student I've had. I'm certain that his disruptions are hindering the ability of the others to learn and–”

“Are you sure this isn't something more... personal, Hermione?”

Headmistress Vector's hair was a tight knot on top of her head, reminiscent of Professor McGonagall though her eyes were a rich shade of blue and too all-knowing for Hermione's comfort. The conversation hadn't gone as Hermione had planned. Yet another thing Scorpius Malfoy had ruined since Christmas morning. She'd asked for a private meeting after the blue box fiasco to go over how well-prepared her N.E.W.T. students were but insist that Scorpius' antics were halting their ability to revise. Vector was supposed to nod worryingly, ask if she was sure and then work on the paperwork to remove him from her class.

Hermione never planned for her motives to come into question – for Vector to give her a hard stare, a raised brow and a frown that made her heart beat nervously.

“Headmistress Vector, I would never shun a student based on his parents' allegiance during the war and I don't appreciate the insinuation that–”

“Hermione,” she interrupted wearily, “you and I would both be lying if we said Draco Malfoy was the greatest student to walk these halls. Truly, he was one of the worst I've ever had to teach and I'm sure Scorpius has inherited some of his less... _amenable_ qualities.”

“I've already discussed having him tutored by Teddy Lupin who received an 'O' on his N.E.W.T.s and has previously worked with Mister Malfoy. He's willing to come three times a week to aid his review. He's learned everything in the curriculum; all that is left over these few weeks is revision. I'm willing to pay out of pocket–”

“That isn't an option here, Hermione. Scorpius tutors first-year Hufflepuffs and fifth-year Gryffindors. You're not going to convince his father that this isn't a personal vendetta. Give him detention, get him alone and have a stern talk with him. He has less than three weeks left and nearly perfect marks in all of his classes. If he wants to do anything in the wizarding world, his Professors' recommendations will be needed and _yours_ will be extremely beneficial to him. Remind him of where he stands in this school, Hermione. Don't stoop down for a student – _especially_ not Draco's.”

Hermione wondered when she started losing arguments when she left the unsuccessful meeting. With Ron and Harry she'd always been the voice of reason. Recently, everyone she spoke to had a better argument, more to say and less to debate about. She'd lost the upper hand after so many years of conversations with children who accepted her knowledge as it was and argued very little.

Scorpius, of course, was the exception. He delighted in debating her points, making her feel small and attempting to take her down one notch at a time.

After Christmas, he had been the first to object her lessons and the last to leave – eyes filled with mirth and tongue swiping over his lips in a manner no 17-year-old should present his Transfiguration professor, much less one nearly 30 years his senior. It was indecent and shockingly arousing though she would deny the latter.

With all of this in mind, she hadn't been surprised when she found him leaning against the worn stone wall just outside the Headmistress' office, his face smug and eyes filled with pride.

“I heard you'd requested a private meeting with our Headmistress yesterday,” he said. When she walked past him, he pulled himself away from the wall to follow her rushed steps with long, easy strides. He made her feel like a dwarf, leaving her to hurry while he kept up with casual poise. “I hope you aren't angry at me for assuming that it had something to do with getting me out of your class, now that you've taught us everything.”

She stopped short, turning to glare at him. “What did you say?”

“Nothing,” Scorpius said, his head tilting to the side as though he were merely curious at her reaction. “I just expressed some concern about how you've been treating me recently.”

“You did _what_?” she hissed.

“I explained to her that you and I had a bit of a run-in over Christmas hols,” he said, shrugging as though his admittance had been nothing important.

It was too much. His nonchalance, the constant threat of others discovering how she was too weak to handle one of her own students and the smug smirk that settled on his lips as he looked down at her was all too much. Everyone woman –ever herself, she realised– had a breaking point... and she had hit hers.

She wrapped her fingers around his blue tie and pulled him toward an empty alcove away from view before she used what little strength she had to shove him against the wall. “How dare you? You must be out of your–”

“Merlin, you're fucking hot when you're angry. Remind me to break something valuable in your room and get your knickers in a twist before we go at it, yeah?”

“You'd do well _not_ to think about my knickers,” Hermione seethed.

“I never was one to follow the rules though, was I?”

When he flipped their positions, she realised she'd been foolish to stand too close to him. Scorpius' hands gripped her hips, pushing them back toward the wall and pinning her against the stone while her fingers held his tie. Her body shook as he pressed a knee between her legs – his closeness threatening her resolve as his lips brushed just below her ear. She couldn't decide if her heart was racing from fear of being caught or the excitement of the act. Closing her eyes, she begged it to settle.

His mint-laced breath was warm against her cheek as he whispered, “Headmistress Vector suggested you and I spend some time in private to work out our issues when I told her you were treating me slightly unfairly. I was so _worried_ you wouldn't provide the reference I needed for my apprenticeship. My focus is in Transfiguration, after all. When should I meet you in your chambers to discuss our unresolved tension, Professor Granger?”

“When we're both in hell,” she responded, pulling his tie towards her forcefully before realising that it was a mistake. His face was too close, his lips just a hair's breadth away from hers and she was certain he could feel her racing pulse as his hand left her hip to cup her cheek. Attempting to sound brave, she added, “because that will be the only time I ever allow you to get close enough to make any of your _tension_ resolved.”

His lips were upon hers without warning, leaving her struggling against his mouth until she was forced to open it to breathe. She tasted the mint in his mouth when she gasped, pulling air deep into her lungs as though she might never be blessed with the chance again. He was unrelenting but fair, letting her chest rise and fall as she took a moment before slipping his tongue past her parted lips with enough force to remind her that she was at the disadvantage – back flush against the wall, his groin pressed eagerly against her stomach.

Hermione attempted to find the strength to push him away but couldn't form a plan around the Scorpius-induced haze that clouded her brain. His hands at her sides, gripping her hips warningly made her feel wanted – possessed, even – in a way she never had before. For a moment she allowed herself to forget that Scorpius was Draco's son, a student and just barely an adult. She twisted her head away, attempting to seem like she was pulling herself but really leaving the sensitive column of her neck open to his teeth and tongue. The warmth that pooled between her legs seemed unfamiliar after so long and refused to be ignored when he moved closer to her, his leg creating a delicious friction at the juncture of her thighs. He seemed determined to taste, feel and connect as much as he could in the few short minutes he had her mouth at his complete discretion.

“I'm going to be late for Potions if I don't leave now,” Scorpius said when he pulled his lips away from hers. But as he spoke his hands didn't move from her hips and he leaned forward to offer another bite to her neck before he finally stepped away. “Pick up where we left off tomorrow night, around ten?”

Hermione knew that though posed as a question, he was making a demand – a silent warning not to disagree – he'd already proven to be a step ahead of her. He'd been anticipating her next move before she even began planning it.

“Absolutely not,” Hermione responded. She watched as he straightened his tie, brushed his hands over his robes to brush away invisible dirt (or her Muggleborn germs, as she was certain Draco had warned him about those) and turned to leave.

“Right,” he called over his shoulder, turning the corner of the alcove, the sound of feet suddenly filling the hall. “Tomorrow, ten o'clock.”

* * *

She hadn't taken him seriously, though she supposed after that she should have. When she rose from bed, grabbing her black robe to answer the knock on her door, she'd expected a first year fretting over an incomplete essay or a fifth year begging for another copy of the notes she'd provided for revision before his O.W.L.s the next day.

Seeing Snape's ghost naked before her open door would have been a more welcome sight than Scorpius Malfoy leaning against the stone archway. “All dressed up for me? Did you keep those knickers I picked out, then? I knew you hadn't really transfigured them.”

“Go to bed, Mister Malfoy,” Hermione responded, moving to shut the door but finding his foot in the way. She pointed her finger at the offending body part. “I'll break it if it doesn't move out of the way.”

“I don't think you will,” Scorpius replied, lifting the foot to push it against the door and giving him enough room to slide in.

Her chambers were a mess, she knew. She'd spent most of her free time in the library that week, revising with fifth and seventh year students for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, and had little time or focus to straighten her desk or gather her dirty robes into a proper pile. Refuse the house-elves long enough and they'd stop trying, she'd learned, regretting it on weeks like this when she was down to one clean set of robes and a long wool skirt – both far too hot for May.

He grabbed a pair of her knickers, plain cotton black, and waved them at her. “What in Merlin's name are these?”

She snatched them from him and tossed them in the corner where her wrinkled, greying robes lay discarded. “Those are what older woman wear when their arses aren't cute and plump like a seventeen-year-old's anymore. Now, mind your proper Malfoy manners and leave my quarters immediately.”

“I have other proper Malfoy things that I'm sure you'd enjoy more,” he smirked, winking in a manner that she supposed was meant to be teasing but seemed more dangerous than anything else. “My manners are atrocious, as I'm sure you've learned. They're not very Malfoy-like at all.”

Hermione scoffed. Calling them atrocious was the understatement of the year. Something couldn't be atrocious if it didn't exist at all and she was certain – _positively certain!_ – that he had no manners to speak of, much less assign adjectives to. “Here, I'll give you parchment, quill and ink. Take them to Ravenclaw tower, write your father a letter – let him give you tips on how to be a good Malfoy. I'll tell you for certain that joining your Muggleborn professor, who is twice your age, mind you, in her bedchambers is not on the list of things to accomplish before slaughtering the Muggle population.”

His eyes darkened, flashing with emotion – anger, frustration, disappointment. “Think you're funny, do you?” he growled.

It was too much like Draco for Hermione's comfort. She could remember a younger version of a similar face, with nearly all the same features, glaring with hard grey eyes. _“Think my name's funny, do you?”_

It was a cold, awful reminder.

“If you don't want detention with Professor Longbottom on Saturday, Mister Malfoy, I suggest you take your leave,” she responded, aiming to counter his vitriol with detachment. “ _Now_.”

She stood her ground when he moved forward, breathing deeply to steady the nervous, uneven beats of her heart.

“I love how you look when you're flustered,” he whispered, approaching with confidence worthy of a Gryffindor. “The colour rises straight from just beneath the collar of your robes, up your neck to your cheeks. It's beautiful, you know? Someone so strong, all-consumed by knowledge and answers, nervous around someone she continues to call a child, despite my consistent reminders that I am anything but.”

“I'm not flattered by your compliment,” she responded boldly.

His shoulders seemed too wide when he shrugged and it took Hermione only a moment to realise that the sudden size difference is because he's gotten too close – until he's pressed against her. With her back against the wall – forced backward by strong hands on her shoulders and his size advantage – and a murmured “Oh, _God_ ” (Hermione wasn't positive she wasn't the one who whispered it), he pressed his lips on hers, tongue moving slowly over her own and teeth pulling at her lower lip when he retreated long enough to take a deep breath before moving forward again. His fingertips dug into her hips while her hands lay unresisting against her sides despite knowing that it was wrong, so wrong.

She was focused on the clenching in her stomach, the shocking speed of her heart against her ribs and the burning desire for _more_ that she can only blame on being a lonely, older woman who hasn't been touched in so long. Any woman – _any_ – would suffer from the feel of his fingers against her silk robe, the warmth from his chest, his heartbeat through his vest and the sight of his Adam's apple rising and lowering when he gasped for air after breaking away.

“God?” he asked, murmuring against her neck before he pressed a taunting kiss just below her jaw. She could feel the warm trail of his tongue southbound, pausing when he reached the edge of her night robe.

“Nothing,” she responded, her brain failing as his fingers pulled away at her clothing. She watched his eyes darken at the sight of her bare collarbone, tanned freckled shoulder and the thin strap of her nightshirt. She hadn't expected guests; just a night in her rooms with second year essays, a sturdy quill and plenty of bright red ink. Had she any inkling about whose lips would be pressed against her shoulder, about whose tongue would be swiping across the sharp edge of her collar, she would have dressed in more layers – thicker layers, impenetrable layers.

He easily undid the knot on her robes and Hermione couldn't help thinking it's a terrible betrayal for falling victim to his hands without much of a fight. She had been counting on clothing conflicts to hold him off, give her time to catch her breath and focus long enough to produce an entire sentence.

It had been _too long_.

“Enough,” she tried when his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her stomach which peeked from between the parted folds of black silk to run along the edge of her knickers. His smirk was wide when he caught sight of the sliver of red lace before his fingers removed the robe from her body, letting it fall to the floor in one fluid motion.

“I knew you didn't transfigure them,” he said, sounding excited. “Do you think of me when you wear them?”

“No,” Hermione argued as she pulled away, attempting to drag him towards the door. “No, I don't. Because I've never worn them before.”

It was true – she hadn't worn them. She'd found them the day before while shuffling through what little clean clothing she had left. Dirty knickers were never an option so she'd snatched them from the bed, taken a deep breath and pulled them on before she had time to second-guess herself. She had shifted uncomfortably through her first two classes, continually reminded that she was wearing fine lace knickers picked out by a nosy, Ravenclaw _student_. Hermione didn't dare consider what he'd been thinking. She was certain her imagination and that of a teenage boy's were in two separate worlds.

She expected him to be angry – perhaps refuse to believe her – but she never expected his eyes to widen, his smirk to spread and his tongue to run across his lips appreciatively. “Wonderful,” he said as he leaned into her, pressing his chest flush against hers. His fingertips trailed down her arms, stopping at her wrists to pull her hands toward the clasp of his cloak. “Don't be shy, Professor. Your years of experience are what excited me in the first place.”

“You're going to be incredibly disappointed,” Hermione said. Her fingers flexed against the clasps beneath them, feeling them slip from the hold but not making any move to free them. She dared to look up, to catch his penetrating gaze and let it hold hers while she considered exactly what he'd rather have her do.

Draco had made her feel small – insignificant, based on her blood status alone – but Scorpius' eyes seemed to be only for her in that moment. Perhaps she could use this to her advantage – give him exactly what he wanted and more. Send him on his way with shaking knees and a mind filled with thoughts of her at the end of the night and turn him away next time he knocked at her door. She was Hermione Granger, recently divorced for a blond with half her brain and twice her bust size, and any game Scorpius wanted to play, she could play better.

The clasps of his robes were warm under her fingers when she pulled them open, allowing her palms to move up his chest with exaggerated slowness. Pretending to play coy, she glanced through her lashes to watch his face as her palms reached his shoulders and wrapped her fingers in the royal blue fabric there. He seemed momentarily star-struck – shocked, she could tell – by the sudden change in her demeanor. She knew better than to do so without explanation – words, after all, were her specialty. She could talk her way through anything.

“You're right,” she said, letting her voice drop to a sultry murmur. “I've been too modest to your suggestions. It's been too long and my ex-husband–”

“Was clearly a fool,” he finished, his gaze caught by the sight of her dusky pink nipples through the soft, white fabric of her top. He reached forward to run his thumbs over them and smirked when they hardened at his touch, her lips parting as she moaned in tune. She worried her lip, dragging it between her teeth before letting her tongue pass over it with a single, soothing stroke.

Scorpius groaned, leaning forward to press his mouth against her still-parted lips and sweep his tongue over hers. Effectively silenced, she pushed the cloak from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with her discarded robe, and pressed her hand at the juncture of his legs. Her palm over the thick fabric of his trousers attracted Scorpius' gaze as he moaned against her mouth, their breath mingling when he broke away.

“You can do better than that, yeah?” he asked, raising a brow when she didn't move further. “I'm all about going slow but I've been waiting too long to have your mouth on me to treat you like a proper lady tonight, Professor.”

The challenge was there, laced in his mocking tone, and she accepted it when she pulled the button of his trousers open, yanking the zip hard enough to make him gasp before her fingers traced the edge of his black pants. “Who says I enjoy being treated like a proper lady?” she quipped, mouth against his ear when she breathed, “maybe I like it a little on the faster end? The rougher sort?”

Scorpius groaned, head leaning back though his darkened eyes followed her as she moved south, her fingers pulling open the buttons of his white oxford before she rested on her knees before him, back arched forward and neck tilted enough so that his eyes caught sight of the thick band of red lace over the silk that covered her arse. His moan made her think that perhaps he was pleased with the way she looked in them. The thought gave her the confidence to she tug his trousers down his legs to rest at his feet and press her mouth against the bulge in his pants.

“Hermione,” Scorpius growled, a cross between warning and pleading when she let her tongue swipe over the black fabric. She gave him the attention he desired with a single obstacle in the way – entirely too devious for a Gryffindor, she was sure -- when she mouthed his erection, tongue pressed dangerously against the head he seemed unable to argue any further.

“Impatient,” she mumbled when his fingers gripped her hair to pull her away. Scorpius tugged slightly, forcing her face upwards to look at him. She was certain he could see the flush of pink against her cheeks, her slightly heaving chest struggling for breath and her lips red and slightly swollen.

“Lovely,” he murmured, fingers stretching through her curls.

He kicked off his pants when she pulled them down to his ankles and sighed when he felt her breath against his warm skin, her left hand drew patterns over his thighs and she pressed her tongue flat against the underside of his cock, moving upward slowly before lapping lightly at his frenulum. His gasp urged her forward, her lips pressing a fluttering kiss to his head before they parted allowing him to arch forward and enter.

He groaned, rocked his hips before her tongue moved against him, lips forming a perfect 'O' around his hardened flesh as she pulled back, tongue dipping into the slit before descending again. Hermione found a steady rhythm, hands following her lips to create smooth motions on her upward pulls, fingertips ghosting over his bollocks, making him arch away from the stone wall with a groan. She was prepared to hear him beg, slowing down her motions and rolling her tongue over the head of his erection once more before rubbing just her lips over his head, letting her breath tease him.

He watched her through his lashes, eyes following the way her neck twisted when she moved down to press her lips as close to the base of his cock as she could, her pale hand working the bit of reddened flesh she couldn't accommodate with her mouth. He gasped when she looked up, caught his gaze and allowed her teeth to brush barely over the head of his cock before she pulled off with a wet, 'pop' that shouldn't have been nearly as sexy as it was.

He smirked at her smile, seeming pleased when she parted her moist, red lips to allow him entry again. Hermione took him deep, feeling him press against the back of her throat, just before the spot she knew would leave her with watering eyes. She hummed gently as she sucked hard, pulling up while he moaned above her. He whispered her name and said, “ _more._ ”

Hermione dropped her left hand to his bollocks, rolling the sensitive flesh between her fingers, palm brushing against them as she moved between stroking his erection teasingly. Her right hand gripped the base of his cock, pulling it up to meet her lips as she increased her rhythm, moving in a quick, steady pattern. She was proud to find his knees shaking slightly, his mouth parted as he gasped and his thighs tensed when she teased him with teeth once more.

Scorpius groaned before he came. Head tossed back, sweaty fringe pressed against his forehead and over his eyes as he moaned her name. He breathed half a warning before warm come was on her tongue, splattering against the back of her throat and filling her mouth before she swallowed quickly, disgusted by the taste but wanting him to think she'd enjoyed every second of what she'd just done.

It wasn't entirely true to say she'd hated it. Any woman would get wet if eyes like his looked at them so hungrily, possessive gaze making them feel as though they were the only woman in the world who could give him exactly what he needed. He was young and fit with solid abs as his hips moved in tune with her mouth, his fingers tight in her hair but not forcing her. It was considerate of him, but it didn't change a thing.

He had what he wanted and he'd long for more but school was ending and he was nearly out of the door already. It wouldn't take much to ignore his advances for the next week until he was consumed by N.E.W.T.s and final assignments before his apprenticeship. She'd provide his recommendation via owl and they'd be done.

She smirked as she rose, legs trembling and breasts heaving as she took a deep breath. Her mouth tasted awful and she wanted nothing more but to rinse her mouth with water once he left. Scorpius' eyes gleamed at the red knickers before she shrugged her robe back on, tied the knot around her waist and nodded towards the door. “Perhaps you should head to bed now, Mister Malfoy.”

He smirked as his eyes darkened with mirth. Laughing dryly at her tone, he said, “You've underestimated me again, Professor. The Sorting Hat claimed my tenacity made me worthy of Gryffindor, my intelligence of Ravenclaw and my cunning truly Slytherin. Even it didn't consider me much of a Hufflepuff.” He reached down to pull his pants up his legs and then motioned to her heaving chest. “You didn't change your mind, Professor – didn't realise you'd been 'too modest'. You thought you could give me enough to make me want more to leave me obsessing over you – and then you'd just leave. Less than three weeks left, yeah? Thought you could hold me off for that much longer, didn't you?

“What you didn't consider was that now I have all I need to get you in quite a bit of trouble with the board of governors. I'm sure you remember the sway my grandfather had with them from your time here with my father – he had your friend's Hippogriff axed, didn't he? It seems the board is just as fond of my father's _donations_ as they once were of my grandfather's. Galleons move mountains, Professor Granger.”

He was sly – always one step ahead of her, even in this. It wasn't fair – not after so many years of faithful service to the Ministry, the citizens and her students. Scorpius' happiness for that of thousands of others and her own; had expecting him to suffer in return really been that evil?

“Shocked, Professor? I would be.”

Scorpius grabbed his robe, pulling it over his shoulders and shoving his tie into his pocket as he moved past her. His shoulder bumped hers and she tensed at the motion before looking away.

“Why?” she asked, her voice firm despite her furiously racing heart and sudden desire to tear him limb-for-limb and send his pieces to Draco Malfoy in a beautiful blue box topped with perfect silver ribbon.

Somewhere deep in Hermione's heart she knew that this was something she deserved. She'd played with fire and been burnt and, standing before his all-knowing gaze, he seemed to look through her silk robe to see her just as she was – recently divorced, struggling to accept the reality that she had so many years ahead and no one to go through them with. She was weak when he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to her temple, his lips lingering against her skin.

His breath was warm on her face as he placed a second kiss, this time on her swollen lips. He pulled away, straightening his robes and smirking as he turned to open the door. “I read once that a Muggle somewhere said, 'When seeking revenge, dig two graves. One for yourself–'” he paused, looking away as though he were considering the quote himself before he turned back to her and smiled. “Thank you for the help, Professor Granger. I'll see you tomorrow evening.”

“Scorpius, I–” Hermione started, prepared to refuse.

His eyes were casual when he spoke, carrying no hint of anything more sinister behind his tone when he stopped at the threshold of her rooms. Peeves cackled somewhere down the hall and attracted Scorpius' attention before he turned back to look at her and smiled.

“I'm rather fond of perfection, Professor Granger,” he explained, “and you're the only one who seems to fit the bill.” He paused, leaned forward in a mock bow and said, “Good night, Hermione,” before the door clicked shut behind him.

 _'One for yourself,'_ Hermione thought, eyes trained on the oak door. _'Silly for a Ravenclaw to forget that a circle has no end and revenge is a double-edged sword. One for himself, indeed.'_


End file.
